


The Thousand-Faced Child

by DarkWitchXeres



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWitchXeres/pseuds/DarkWitchXeres
Summary: AU universe, fantasy setting. In the country of Baishe, Chernobog rules with an iron hand. The prince, Mikhail, lives a secluded life, his only friend a beautiful doll. But life and tragedy will come crushing. Will the lonely prince find love and conquer his demons?Inspired by the plot of The Three Fat Men by Yury Olesha.
Relationships: Mikhail Arbatov/Liu Fei Long
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to GrinchMMaster, who came with its idea. Thank you for the inspiration.

The day his doll died was the day the fires outside the Citadel started.

Only thirty days left until the Great Fete of the New Year and the entire staff was taken up with preparations. There was a low, frenetic buzz pulsating through the Eastern Wing, waking up to unusual life the long marble corridors and the high-ceilinged halls that stood in sombre silence the best part of the year. Flowery-scented candles had been placed at intervals, chasing the long shadows and enveloping the severe pieces of furniture in a golden glow. There was laughter and animation. The Fete would bring gifts for the servants and a relaxing of the rules. People would be allowed to drink and dance and sing. The Prince was the only one whose mood usually soured during the celebrations, because The Fat Man was expected to come down from the Celestial Wing and pay a visit. He never looked forward to that.

It had been almost thirty years since Chernobog had taken control of Baishe and begun raising the Citadel, famously the most luxurious palace in the Seven Kingdoms. Initially a band of mercenaries and misfits, they quickly infiltrated the Imperial Army and took the country by storm. They ruled with an iron fist, with The Fat Man as their leader. No one knew his true name, or how many actual Fat Men had actually been. Some whispered it had been the same man all along, his life prolonged with magic. Slowly, surely, they had become richer and more ruthless. The country had been drained. The people muttered, then shouted, then took to the streets. The revolts had been drowned in blood. Martial Law had been imposed five years before, to quench any possible uprising. Still, the rebels fought on. People died. They hungered. Baishe was twittering on the edge of a knife.

Prince Mikhail knew nothing of this. He had never stepped outside the Citadel in his life. His entire world was restricted to the cold chambers of the Eastern Wing and to the gardens surrounding it. He had been brought to the Citadel at a very young age, chosen among more than a thousand boys to become The Fat Man’s heir. Mikhail had heard people were astonished at the time, since it had never been done before. Some of the higher-ups in Chernobog were said to have attempted a coup, since every one of them expected to take the reins someday and maybe become the next Fat Man. In the end, all of that amounted to nothing. Mikhail had been officially named heir, in a ceremony he vaguely remembered (there were very high cakes in all the colours of the rainbow and everyone wore golden clothes). Since then, his life had stopped. It was like living in some kind of dream – a gossamer haze that enveloped his heart and strangled it. There was never any change, or real joy.

As a child, that didn’t bother him very much. He couldn’t remember his parents and he was always surrounded by people obeying his every whim. As he grew up though, he started feeling the pressure of his confinement. He had no friends, only tutors. He would have liked to know more about his role as heir, but he wasn’t allowed to attend any official meetings or learn anything of real substance. His only lessons consisted of calligraphy, music, dance, astronomy and biology. He knew nothing of what lay outside his resplendent cage, and there was no one to ask. Slowly, painfully, his soul began crumpling inward, like dead leaves. He forgot how to laugh. He forgot why.

And then he received his doll and the world was once again full of wondrous possibilities.

The first time he had met the doll, he was almost fifteen years old, a gangly youth with rebellious blond hair barely tamed by his valet’s ministrations and a face that still held the memory of pimples. He was one day in the gardens and a man approached him, holding the hand of a (boy?/girl?) figure who walked as gracefully as a dancer. It was the most beautiful creature Mikhail had ever seen, with long, silky black hair that framed delicate features illuminated by the most serene of smiles. The stranger appeared to be of the same age as he. When those large, luminous eyes looked at him, something in Mikhail’s chest expanded alarmingly. The stranger bowed his head and extended a slim hand. The prince took it. And his life starting moving forward again.

Yuri, The Fat Man’s first lieutenant, tried several times to take his doll away. “Shameful habit for a prince,” he had said with the scornful look that always made Mikhail tremble. Surprisingly, The Fat Man took Mikhail’s side on this. “Let him have it,” he had pronounced in that oddly melodious voice of his. “It’s a harmless distraction. Let him play with the thing for a while, it will relieve some of his youthful energy.” Yuri had gritted his teeth at that. Mikhail hadn’t understood the meaning behind those words, but it didn’t matter. He was happy and so grateful he could keep his precious friend.

He understood later, of course, not that it did him any good.

The doll became his companion, his confidant, his other half. (It was a boy, a thing the prince discovered the very same evening after they’d met when the doll entered the bathroom to take a piss, with a scandalized Mikhail in the tub). In almost all respects, he looked and acted like a human being. He ate, and made water, and cried. And he laughed, the most wonderful sound in Mikhail’s small world. The doll didn’t care about clothes, but Mikhail wanted to show everyone how beautiful he was, so he dressed him in robes of the finest silk embroidered with gold thread. The doll had a name, but the prince wasn’t allowed to use it. The Fat Man was adamant on this. Mikhail had discovered it though, written inside a small locket the doll was wearing at their first meeting. All those things had been thrown away long since, but he hadn’t forgotten. He whispered that name sometimes to himself, like a prayer.

How he loved his precious doll.

The day of the doll’s death, Mikhail was in the gardens again. He would remember later, during those cold and solitary nights when he couldn’t sleep but mourned, that a bizarre twist of fate had made that what was about to happen would take place almost in the same spot as their first encounter. He’d just finished his piano lesson and was hurrying on one of the paths to meet his friend. It was the best time of the day for him. His heart was thumping in his chest, full of joy and excitement and longing. He couldn’t wait to make the doll laugh with his latest prank that had turned the music teacher red with anger. Pranks and laughter. Something else he had learned thanks to his friend.

The doll was waiting as usual on a bench near one the marble fountains. When he heard Mikhail approach, he raised his eyes and smiled. His long hair was loose, enveloping his shoulders, and his elegant fingers rested on the strings of the gusli that the prince had gifted him. He hadn’t been singing for a while, apparently. There were petals of wild flowers on the instrument and the doll’s hands didn’t move to toss them aside.

“Misha,” he said when the prince was seated beside him.

“Were you playing?”

“I was,” said the doll. “I was composing a song for you, my prince. Then something happened.” Still smiling, he turned his head in the direction opposite the one Mikhail had come from. He appeared to be listening intently.

“Something happened? What?” Mikhail enquired, but he didn’t really concentrate on the answer. His mind dwelled on the way his friend smelled – fresh, like citrus trees and herbs. It was distracting. He took one of the other’s hand in his.

“It did.”

“Well, something happened back at the palace as well,” Mikhail said and laughed. “I think I’m going to be reprimanded, but it was totally worth it. That old goat won’t be using that bamboo stick on me anytime soon.”

The doll turned his serene gaze on him, and Mikhail’s words died on his lips. Beneath the calm demeanour, there was a strange sense of urgency in the doll’s expression.

“Misha, maybe you should…”

And that was when the sound of the first explosion resounded, a booming sound that reverberated across the gardens. The ground shook for a few seconds, raising a thin layer of dust. Mikhail jumped to his feet.

“What the…What the hell was that?”

A second explosion now, closer. This part of the gardens was close to the East Wall that separated the Citadel proper from the Upper City. The explosions seemed to be coming from beyond the wall. A couple of moments of silence, then there were shouts, the intermittent crackle of gunfire, echoes of things crashing. Soon, the air grew thicker with smoke. There was a distinct orange tinge to the eastern horizon.

Mikhail made to start in that direction, but the doll’s fingers closed around his wrist.

“No,” he said. “Stay here, Misha.”

The prince turned towards the doll in surprise and was about to voice his objection, when he heard hurried footsteps approaching from the direction of the gate. Mikhail straightened, expecting to see one of the guards. It wasn’t. The man coming down the gravelled path at a run was someone he’d never seen before. A tall, muscular man, dressed in what appeared to be merchant’s clothes, all torn up and covered in mud. He held a short sword in his right hand and a pistol in his left. He abruptly stopped in his tracks just a few feet away, as he registered their presence. His golden eyes travelled from Mikhail to the doll still seated on the bench. And they visibly widened, a shocked expression on his handsome face.

“I don’t believe it…” the man hissed. His lips twisted around the words.

Mikhail moved instinctively to position himself between his doll and this man. The stranger was clutching his weapons fiercely. There was boiling anger in his eyes now. He was trembling. Silence stretched between them for a few moments, then the man charged. Mikhail had never been in a fight, but his body reacted nonetheless. He threw himself in the man’s path, his arms outstretched to protect his friend, but he was shoved aside without obvious effort. This man was very strong. As he was falling to his knees beside the bench, Mikhail’s bewildered mind registered in a flash the details. The man’s hands, covered in fresh cuts. A crimson spot beneath the shoulder blade. The blinding sun, making the stranger’s dark hair shine. His doll, pushed down on the bench, the stranger’s blade raised above him menacingly.

“Traitor!” the man snarled, and the blade descended.

Without even thinking twice, Mikhail threw himself at the man. The blade jerked in the stranger’s hand, came down hard on the doll’s right cheek. A deep, red line blossomed on the pale skin following the sword’s trajectory. Only a small gasp escaped the doll’s lips. It was Mikhail who screamed. He grabbed the man’s arm with all his might and pulled. He didn’t care what happened to him, he just wanted to save his friend. A few seconds of struggle which the prince was clearly losing, since the attacker was clearly the stronger between them. Then another explosion erupted, much, much closer this time. Probably just behind the wall.

They were both thrown to the ground by the sudden impact. The air shook, filled with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Mikhail couldn’t hear anything for a moment. And then his ears popped and sound came rushing back in, bringing with it a wave of nausea. He tried to get up, but his arms and legs were shaking. Next to him, the stranger was coughing. Then came the sound of gunfire and more footsteps. The man’s head jerked up. He spit on the ground, rose to his feet with impressive speed and bolted in the direction of the Eastern Wing. Mikhail had trouble moving. After no more than a minute, armed guards burst through the surrounding foliage and followed the man. They didn’t spare a single glance to the two figures near the bench.

“Find him!” someone shouted.

And that was when Mikhail came to his senses. He rose with a grunt and turned desperate eyes towards his friend. The doll had returned to a seated position. His face was entirely blank. Blood was running down his neck, colouring the silk of his robes. When his eyes met Mikhail’s, a small smile twitched his lips.

“Misha,” he said. “I’m happy you are all right.”

The prince helped the doll to his feet and made his way to the palace, his fingers clasping one of the cool hands almost in desperation. He didn’t care about the danger. He didn’t care, or understand what was going on beyond the Citadel walls. All he cared about was that his friend was hurt, and that he had to keep him safe.

He led the doll to one of his own rooms and made him wait there while he was frantically searching for the alcohol solution his physicians always used when he injured himself. He brought a small basin filled with warm water and a washcloth and started cleaning the doll’s face. The blood still trickled on his skin, warm to the touch.

“It’s going to be fine,” Mikhail said, trying to sound reassuring. His hand was not very steady. There were smears of blood all over the doll’s collar. He could still feel his heart thundering under his ribs, making it difficult to breathe properly. The doll stood perfectly still under his touch. Just his eyes followed the prince’s movements, unreadable and very dark.

“You’re going to be fine,” the latter continued. “It’s just a cut. I’m going to ask one of the physicians to come and take a look at you. They will heal this in no time. This won’t happen again, I swear. From now on, I’ll protect you.”

The doll smiled, his usual calm, warm smile.

“No need to worry about me, my prince.”

“I’ll protect you,” Mikhail repeated.

“You know I don’t feel pain.”

Mikhail stopped abruptly. It was true, of course. His doll couldn’t feel pain, so this cut wouldn’t really bother him that much. And the Citadel’s physicians worked wonders on any kind of injury. There was no need to worry.

The thing was, the prince could feel pain, when his friend could not. It was there, pulsating deep at the centre of him, making him sob suddenly. His doll couldn’t feel pain. This would mean nothing to the doll, really. There was no fear in the eyes that regarded him. The pain and the fear were all his own.

In almost all respects, his friend resembled a human being. He just didn’t feel stings or bruises or the burning of the summer sun. He ate, but couldn’t feel the taste of the food. Slept because his prince did, but the lack of it didn’t affect him. Cried, but only because his prince cried. Never for reasons of his own.

Mikhail’s fingers traced the cut on his friend’s cheek. Then they trailed lower, caressing his neck, the little hollow at the base of it. The scent of his friend’s skin, mixed with the scent of blood filled his nostrils. Slowly, carefully, he removed his friend’s robes and let them fall on the floor. The doll stood there, naked to the waist, his features fixed in that same tender, welcoming smile. Mikhail’s open palms began mapping the contours of the doll’s chest, his arms, the back of his hands. They lingered on muscle and sinew, warm and pliant. His fingers were still covered in blood. He smeared it on the slim shoulders, on the exposed chest. His friend’s skin fell so soft, so inviting. Mikhail could feel his cock beginning to throb. And the doll just stood there without moving, looking at him with his large, dark eyes in which quiet contentment always – still – shone.

Mikhail had understood long ago The Fat Man’s words. Not that it did him, ever, any good.

He had touched his friend before. Just above the waist, never daring to go lower. And his friend had always let him, stood like this in silent acquiescence. Never rejecting, never giving back. Because his doll couldn’t feel desire, either.

Mikhail kissed the smiling mouth. His tongue darted between parted lips that didn’t pull away, but nor did they move in response. His blood was still pumping with the fear of the past hour, the shadow of death that had loomed over them unexpectedly. He sobbed against his friend’s neck, tasting the skin there. Then slowly, ever so slowly, his hands went to trouser buttons. He uncovered himself, then his doll. His head propped on the other’s shoulder, he traced the curve of firm buttocks, the warmth between the legs. He touched the other’s cock ever so shily. Moved his hand up and down, familiarizing himself with the texture, the veins and ridges. It felt so good.

He looked down at the member in his hand. It was beautiful, and completely soft. His own cock was standing erect between their bodies, its tip already moist with precum. He felt the burning desire building in his loins, enveloping that dark crack of pain in searing tendrils. He felt pain. He felt desire. It never did him any good.

Mikhail had learned all there was to know about bodily needs from kitchen boys. He wasn’t very experienced, but he wasn’t an innocent anymore. He’d never done this with his friend. It had always seemed an inviolable barrier, one that if crossed would change everything. But his heart was beating faster now, and all the rush of the last hour sharpened his senses, made him feel the skin under his fingertips and the breath on his face tenfold.

His right hand encircled both their cocks and started moving, faster and faster. There was no sound coming from the doll. Moans escaped Mikhail’s mouth as he felt his body giving away to pure pleasure. He came in a fierce jet on the doll’s abdomen and chest, and for a few seconds he remained still, his breath coming in short puffs. Never any good, indeed. The doll’s cock was soft in his hand. All the pain, all the desire were his. His friend could never share them. He lowered his head on the doll’s shoulder and cried.

“What is this?” a harsh voice boomed from behind him.

It was Yuri, the first lieutenant, followed by three of his men. The prince hadn’t heard them come in. He must’ve forgotten to lock the door, he thought dazedly. Yuri and the others were dressed in military attire and they’ve been in a battle, judging by the state of their clothes and boots. Yuri was looking right at him, his face twisted in anger. The guards were trying to look anywhere else.

“I came to check on your safety, Your Highness,” hissed the first lieutenant. “And here you are, playing physician with your puppet. Disgusting. I should’ve put an end to this long ago. You degrade your title, and bring shame to us all.”

Mikhail let go of the doll, who turned fully naked and half stained in blood to stare blankly at the newcomers. The prince covered himself. He hoped his gestures hadn’t been too hasty. He hated conceding to this man. He also hoped his hands weren’t shaking. He clenched his fists at the sides, refusing to wipe his tear-stained cheeks.

“Thank you for your concern, Yuri,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “As you can see, I am well.”

“Yeeess.” There was a menacing quality to Yuri’s voice as he approached the prince. His boots made a jarring clicking sound on the marble floor. The lieutenant stopped mere inches from Mikhail and his eyes travelled up and down the doll’s body with disgust. “Yes, I can see you were doing more than fine. Just look at this…this perversion. This goes against all our laws of morality. If you weren’t the prince, I would’ve struck you down where you stand.”

Mikhail swallowed. “That’s enough, Yuri. You’ve made your point. Now kindly leave me to my business and go do…whatever your business is.” He made himself rise to his full height. “As you pointed out, I am the prince.”

“You’re nothing but an entitled little shit”. Yuri’s voice cracked like a whip, so cold and venomous that Mikhail recoiled. “You think that title of yours means something? The Fat Man indulges you because he wants to put you to good use. But you’re nothing. And you’ve defied me one too many times.”

Without warning, the lieutenant’s hand grabbed Mikhail by the neck and drew him closer. His fingers were pressing mercilessly, making the prince’s eyes water. Yuri bent his head to his, those cold, hateful eyes travelling across his face and lingering on his lips. For a wild moment, Mikhail expected to be kissed. Then Yuri shoved him aside and took his sword out of its scabbard.

“I should’ve done this long ago. Well, no time like the present.”

The blade cut the air, graceful and precise. There was a wondering look on the doll’s face, as if he’d seen some curious sort of bird. (They used to look at the birds in the gardens, trying to guess what kind each was; Mikhail used to name them all, because he couldn’t name his doll.) Something like a gurgle escaped Mikhail's mouth. There was a swishing sound, and a spray of blood. It was everywhere, on Mikhail’s face, on his clothes, turning the very air crimson red and suffocating. And the doll’s head fell to the floor.

Mikhail wouldn’t completely remember the following week. He didn’t eat much, that was for certain. Only drank the water the valet forced down his throat, and he threw up half of that. He threw up a lot the first two days. Long after the servants had removed the body and cleaned the room, long after he was undressed and washed and perfumed oils were applied on his body, long after he was dressed in fresh clothes and put to bed, the smell of the doll’s blood permeated his skin. And the sound of the head hitting the floor. Such an inconsequential sound. It resounded in his mind over and over. That smell, and that awful sound brought up acrid vomit again and again.

He didn’t sleep much either. His body was drained, but sleep wouldn’t come. When he managed to slide in a torturous, exhausted slumber, he had nightmares. He woke up screaming and called his doll by his real name. And then the cruel reality settled in, and he cried. The world was empty again. Only this time it was covered in shadow.

Yuri didn’t come to his rooms during those dark days. If he had, Mikhail meditated sometimes, he’d have probably killed him. He’d never thought about murder until now, but he could imagine the first lieutenant’s death. In the end, it was good the man didn’t come. Who knows what would’ve happened.

New Year’s came and went. Mikhail, his face pale and drawn, greeted The Fat Man as was his duty, but refused to attend the festivities. He hated the sight of everyone in the palace. He kept mostly to his rooms, or took endless walks around the gardens.

Six days after the Fete, there was a knock on his door. To his utter surprise, it was the man who had first brought the doll to him. A little older, his greying hair receding around the temples. He wore an awkward expression, as if he was bringing news he didn’t know how would be received.

“I have a gift for you,” he said, then bowed and retreated.

A second knock, and this time when the door opened Mikhail rose to his feet so suddenly, he might’ve knocked over one of the chairs, he wasn’t sure. Because there stood his doll, as he once was. Graceful build, long, exquisite hair, luminous eyes in that pale, delicate face. The doll wasn’t smiling, but looking at him intently.

“How…How?” Mikhail breathed, forcing himself to step towards the apparition. “How is it possible? Did they…Did they repair you? Did they heal you? How?...”

The doll approached and bowed, his hands folded neatly at the waist. Mikhail felt tears gathering under his eyelids. This wasn’t possible. And still. This oh-so familiar face was so close. The prince’s breath came in short gasps, as if he’d been running a mile. He raised his hand to that face, where no remaining scar was visible. His fingers trailed his neck then, his chest, hovered at the slender waist. Moved as if on instinct lower.

And that was when the doll’s hand moved to grab his wrist, a totally unexpected reaction. There was a slight frown on the other’s face. And Mikhail's mouth rounded in a silent “o”. Because the dark eyes looking at him with vivid concentration were not his doll’s eyes, but a stranger’s.


	2. Chapter 2

One thing prince Mikhail had learned since the rebellion had started was fear. Not fear related to the upheaval that had started shaking the city beyond the Citadel’s pearl-white walls to its very foundations. Not at first, at least. His fear was more immediate, and more personal. It had first taken roots after Yuri killed his doll. What he’d known for more than ten years, what he’d loved and cherished had been annihilated in one split second. His world was no longer safe. The shell was cracked, and the insidious miasma of death and ruin had poisoned the core. No turning back from that.

If that had nearly broken him, what came after would bring him back from the edge with a vengeance. A peculiar fighting spirit was taking shape inside of him, strong as steel. And that started with his doll’s return.

Not _his_ doll. Not really, not anymore. He’d known this from the moment the doll had stopped his hand and looked at him in sudden defiance. The gesture would’ve been as foreign to the doll as a fish flying in the sky. His doll never really argued, or refused. He was there to guide and support, to gently protect. This…this new version was disturbing, because he didn’t recognize it. And what was more terrifying, he didn’t recognize himself in the doll’s eyes. With his friend, he’d always felt he was, or could be, good and kind and funny. This cold image of himself that he caught sometimes in the doll’s expression, this moody, petulant, arrogant child was as scary as hell. And it made him push back.

His first instinct had been to demand an explanation. But the strange doll’s reaction only lasted for a few seconds. It was quickly covered by polite deference. Mikhail was so baffled by the situation, that he didn’t know how to react, and then the moment had passed. During the whole evening the doll’s behaviour was so overwhelmingly courteous and proper, and the prince was so happy he’d got his friend back, that he forcefully silenced his doubts. How could he question Fate’s generous gift, when it was by his own acts that his friend had been killed? How could he not embrace this now completely, when he was given a second chance? At one point, before going to bed, the prince took the doll’s hands in his own in overflowing enthusiasm and swore they’d never be apart again.

And there it was again. A slight twist of the lips, a cold shadow in the dark eyes. And that grain of fear twisted in his chest and grew.

He didn’t sleep well that night. There were no tears this time. Just empty silence. In the morning, prince Mikhail woke up with a fierce headache and the resolution to get to the bottom of it all.

He simply observed for a few days. It was so hard to discern anything amiss at first. The way this new doll talked and moved resembled his old friend’s mannerisms so well, it messed up with Mikhail’s head. There was one thing though that stood out. This new doll smiled a lot less. There were fewer reassuring words, fewer comforting touches. Instead, Mikhail caught from time to time this strange new companion looking at him with something like assessment. These moments were short and Mikhail told himself he was seeing things. After those first few days though, he came to the unsettling conclusion that he wasn’t.

One other detail that soon caught his eye was the fact that the new doll liked clothes. The old one couldn’t care less about them. It was the prince that always insisted to dress his friend in the most expensive, wonderfully cut silks. The stranger chose the materials himself. He had impeccable taste. Mikhail discovered this one late afternoon when he went to his companion’s room to select for him new clothes from the gifts sent by Chernobog’s tailors. The doll was in front of the mirror, his half-naked body enveloped in an exquisite pale blue robe. Beneath the soft fabric, the lean body bore a few scars and the delicate hint of tan. The doll quickly covered himself and turned towards Mikhail with a forced smile. The longing to touch came upon the prince so overwhelmingly, he almost forgot to breathe. But he just smiled back, feeling the cold divide between them as sharp as a knife.

He first reached the conclusion that the doll had been changed when it had been repaired. He ordered some of the servants to look for the man who’d brought him the doll. Nobody knew him though; nobody had seen him entering the Eastern Wing or leaving afterwards. Nobody knew who’d made the doll in the first place. Mikhail had asked about it once, when his companion was first brought to him. The Fat Man had ordered the prince be punished - ten lashes to the sole of each feet. “Curiosity is a bad trait,” he’d said. “Let’s root this out of you before you are corrupted by it.” After that, he had refrained from asking unnecessary questions. He chose to simply enjoy his doll’s company, without caring about the rest. It was the only way to keep their small world safe.

But their world was shattered now, and his newfound stubborn determination would not be silenced.

He remembered how that strange man had attacked them in the gardens. How he’d called his companion “traitor”, as if he recognized him from somewhere. He had since learned the man was Asami, one of the leaders of the rebellion raging at that moment beyond the Citadel’s walls. How he’d managed to sneak into the Citadel grounds, or what exactly he’d been meaning to accomplish was anyone’s guess. He’d been apprehended the same day though and locked up in one of the menagerie’s cages, to be put on display every Sunday to the mockery and contempt of all highborn visitors.

The first Sunday after his doll was returned to him, the prince went to see the captive.

He wasn’t allowed to enter that part of the Citadel unaccompanied. Two servants followed close behind, offering from time to time some refreshment or a parasol to protect the prince’s pale skin from the sun. Mikhail seated himself on a bench and waited patiently until most of the visitors had left to take their afternoon tea and the two servants started dozing off. He rose then to his feet and made his way to one corner of menagerie, where the iron-barred cage had been erected.

The cage was small, intentionally built not to allow much freedom of movement. It was hard to imagine how it could have contained someone like this prisoner. Even forced to sit down and with his feet bound, he gave an impression of such imposing strength and authority that Mikhail simply stared at him in silence for a few moments.

The golden eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, but otherwise the rebel prisoner didn’t move at all from his position.

“We meet again,” he said simply.

“Yes,” Mikhail responded and he swallowed. He was suddenly unsure what to ask, and how to ask it.

“I didn’t know who you were before,” the man, Asami, continued after a short pause. “Judging by the signet ring you wear on your right hand, you must be Mikhail Arbatov, the prince heir.”

“You have sharp eyes,” Mikhail commented.

Asami laughed softly.

“They do say that, yes.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“No, I wasn’t really. I was trying to kill the man you were with.”

Mikhail gritted his teeth. Asami kept looking at him with mild interest, as if he was watching some unusual creature.

“How do you know him?”

At that, Asami’s expression changed, a shadow of barely concealed surprised passing over his features.

“Of course I know him. You know who I am, right? We may avoid unnecessary contact between us to avoid drawing suspicion, but we the main players are aware of each other’s identities.” Asami laughed again, bitterly this time. “And I may have said too much. Not that you bastards can extract anything from me. I’ll take all the Aerialist’s secrets to the grave. Or whatever other place you have in store for me. That guy though, he is a fucking traitor. He can rot for all I care.”

“That guy…?”

“I wouldn’t have expected him to be a two-faced piece of shit. Not in a million years. I guess you never know who to trust.”

Mikhail was staring at the man now, speechless. A hundred questions popped up in his mind one after the other, making it harder to actually concentrate on what this man was actually saying. _How could you know him, since he’s been with me always? Could you be mistaken? When my friend was trying to stop me from investigating what was going on that day, did he know? Did the two of you communicate in some way? Did you come that day in the gardens to look for him? Did he betray me? Am I slowly going insane?_

Icy coldness was gripping his heart in a poisonous embrace. Of course, this Asami could be wrong. This could be just a huge, terrible, heart-breaking misunderstanding. But the eyes regarding him were clear and serious, not a hint of doubt in them. And his friend had changed. He couldn’t deny it, as much as he struggled to.

_The doll that they sent back this time is a stranger._

He looked at the man in front of him with loathing. His heart was beating so fast he thought he might faint.

“You are never getting out of here,“ he said, his voice hoarse. “You’ll be punished for your crimes against Chernobog.” He was vaguely aware that he was trembling. “This cage is nothing compared to what Yuri and his men will do to you.”

“Something you are very familiar with,” the other replied smoothly. “Yes, I’ve heard the stories. Run along now, little prince. Go play with your toys. No matter what happens to me, a reckoning is coming.”

He didn’t know how long it took for him to return to his rooms. He felt sick again, the same as when the first lieutenant had cut his friend’s head. Maybe he had some weird disease. Not his friend. _Not my friend. A stranger. An enemy._ He said on the edge of one of the couches, his head in his hands, trying to decide what to do next.

The man who’d brought him the doll was probably in on it, too. Maybe some of the servants. Was it even possible that nobody had seen anything? For a brief, nauseating moment, he considered bringing the matter to Yuri. The thought turned his stomach. He hadn’t seen the first lieutenant since that awful day. He wasn’t prepared to do it now, not yet. Not until he understood what was happening. This was something he had to do on his own.

The edge of that cold resolve twisted in his chest, hardening his heart around it.

It was already dark when the doll knocked at the door and came in bringing the prince’s dinner – two jam sandwiches and aromatic tea. There was only one small candle burning in the room, so almost all of it was drowned in shadow. The doll made to light more candles near the fireplace.

“No, leave it,” came Mikhail’s voice. Strangely without inflection, like it wasn’t really his own. _I don’t want to see your face right now._

“As you wish,” the doll said calmly. “Where do you want your tea? I brought you two sandwiches as well. I’ve noticed you haven’t eaten much today. I’ve figured you’d be hungry.”

_How very thoughtful of you._ Mikhail tasted bile at the back of his throat. “Set it here. Then come sit here beside me. We haven’t talked properly the last few days.”

“Of course, my prince.” The doll placed the tray on the small rosewood table next to Mikhail. He arranged the plate of sandwiches, the boll of jam and a brass knife in front of the man still seated on the couch. He then proceeded to poor hot water from the silver samovar into the delicate china cup in which he had already placed fresh-scented leaves. His fingers as they moved in front of Mikhail gave off the same light, minty scent. It was so enticing. And so scary at the same time. _A stranger’s smell._

“Do you want some honey in your tea, my prince?”

“No. Leave it. Come seat here with me.”

Mikhail could barely make out the doll’s silhouette, like a slim, graceful figure made entirely of shadow. He appeared to be hesitating. Then he sat on a chair opposite the prince, on the other side of the small table. Mikhail suppressed a sudden urge to laugh. He took the knife and started idly playing with it.

“Tell me,” he said after a few moments. “Do you know who was the man who brought you to me?”

A short pause.

“No, my prince. I don’t think I was meant to.”

“Do you remember what happened that day? I mean…when…you know.”

In the semidarkness, Mikhail could see the doll tilting his head to one side, could almost feel that deep, assessing gaze.

“I do, yes. Not a pleasant memory. I suspect it was hard for you after that.”

“It was. I thought I’d lost my friend forever.” Mikhail was twirling the knife between his fingers, the silvery blade catching from time to time the reflection of the candle. “How was it when you woke up? Did it hurt?” _Was it still you in there?_ “How long before they brought you back?”

Another pause, longer this time. When the doll responded, he was decidedly wary. “I couldn’t say, my prince. One, two days at the most, I think.”

Mikhail rose to his feet, still holding the knife. He rounded the table and came to stand behind the doll’s chair. When he placed one hand on one of the doll’s shoulders, he could feel it tense. Or maybe he was imagining it. The anger was building up, colouring in red the edges of his vision.

“You used to call me by my name. Why don’t you use it know? If feels so lonely when nobody says your name.”

The doll started to turn his head around, and this close Mikhail would finally make out that beloved face, would drown in the dark brown eyes that held all the hues of the autumn under a golden sky. And all his determination would crumble. He encircled the doll’s neck with his left hand, stopping the movement.

“Say my name.”

“Whatever you want, Mikhail.”

Something like a sob escaped the prince’s lips. The anger expanded, grew thick with the menace of retribution. And sorrow. So much sorrow, bitter and heavy. _Not my friend, but a stranger._ Who had done this? Who had brought his doll back, but altered and unrecognizable? Was he a spy now? Could it have been Yuri? Did the first lieutenant’s jealousy go that far? Did he purposefully have the doll repaired, only to send him back to Mikhail as a stranger to punish him? To show him that what he’d held so precious meant nothing? _Not Misha. Never again._

The fingers on the back of the doll’s neck hardened like clasps. And the blade came under the doll’s chin, pressing the soft skin there.

“Well, if I’ve been sent just a doll and nothing else, it’s time to play.”

The doll’s hands shot up to catch his wrist, but Mikhail was faster. The blade went deeper, almost breaking skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. I will, though, if you try my patience. This knife may not be very sharp, but I know how to use it. Now. You will answer my questions. Tell me. Who brought you back to me? And no more lies.”

The doll swallowed, an almost imperceptive movement.

“I don’t know what you mean, my prince. And I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you. Please, tell me what I can do to make amends.”

He spoke eerily calmly, but the neck under Mikhail’s fingers was rigid.

“You can start by telling me what you know. Who brought you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was that man in the gardens? How did he know you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lies, lies, lies!” Spit burst from Mikhail’s mouth, landed on the pale skin of the doll’s cheek. “Stop lying to me! I can’t stand it, not from you!” His trembling hand pushed the blade deeper, he felt skin giving in, felt warm blood dripping on his fingers. “Who are you?” he hissed.

Deeper, deeper. The blade wouldn’t stop. One of the doll’s hands clutched his fiercely and started to push back. He heard a gasp of pain from the doll, as the knife slid sideways under the pressure of their fingers.

Pain. Mikhail’s mind went completely blank.

The doll could not have felt pain. It was impossible. He could’ve faked it. But there was nothing false in the reaction he’d perceived in that split second – the gasp, and the neck pushing involuntarily backwards away from the blade.

Not. Possible.

As if from a distance, he saw his hand slackening, the knife falling to the carpet in a spray of blood. The doll (doll?) covering his neck wound with his hand.

“ _Who are you?”_


End file.
